I ain't ever gonna feel better
by Special Patrol Groupie
Summary: Chris unwittingly brings in some very special brownies. Everyone but Sam has some.  Based on an episode of "Barney Miller." Someday I may write a proper crossover.


Chris came in wearing the same clothes he had yesterday, grinning ear to ear. It didn't take Forensics to figure out why. But he made sure everyone knew what had happened.

"And she made us some brownies," he concluded, holding up the box. They certainly smelled good.

"Maybe you shouldn't set them out till Gene gets here," Sam said in his usual cautious way. "He'll be upset if there were sweets he didn't get."

"Oh, don't be such a Nancy," said Ray, grabbing at the treats, but Chris pulled the box back.

"Sorry, Ray, he's right."

"Right about what?" bellowed DCI Hunt, coming in from his weekly senior officers' meeting, looking even grumpier than ever.

"Brownies," Chris said, offering the box to Gene.

"Don't mind if I do!" Gene exclaimed, taking one and biting into it. "Didn't have brekkie yet. Beats 'ell out of stale Garibaldis. Where's Cartwright? I want me tea."

"I'll make it," Sam said, getting up and taking a brownie in passing. He took a bite on the way to the break room. It had an unpleasant taste, sort of herbal, grassy … he spat it out and dumped the rest into a bin in the hallway.

Annie was in the break room, already making tea. Sam rinsed his mouth in the tap, not bothering with a cup.

"Morning, luv," Sam said, drying his face. "How are you today?"

"Hmph," Annie said, not looking up.

"What's wrong?" Sam said, getting down tea, his own teapot, a couple of mugs and the sugar.

"Oh, nothing … just got stood up last night. Nothing important." She left the room carrying a tea pot, and now Sam remembered: He was supposed to take Annie to see "The Godfather," but he'd decided to take a short nap before getting dressed. Because he'd worked three 18-hour days straight, that "nap" lasted 12 hours. He woke up feeling rested, but had completely forgotten he was supposed to take her out. Why did he keep screwing things up where she was concerned? It hadn't been this difficult with Maya … or any of the women he had loved, really. But it was already too late to call her back and try to apologize. He would try … later.

When he returned to the incident room with the freshly brewed tea, Chris came up to him with a really dopey grin on his face. Dopier than usual.

"Hey, have another brownie," he said.

"No thanks," Sam said.

"They're really good," Chris said. "You dunk them in your tea, and they get mushier."

"I'm sure they do –"

"Really mushy," Chris said, dunking his brownie.

"Quite. Now, I was wondering if –"

"Sam. Sam. Sam."

"What, Chris?"

Chris grinned. "Mushy mushy."

Looking over Chris' shoulder, he saw Ray spinning around in his chair, stopping only to take another brownie, which he made disappear.

"Have you got those reports on the missing Fleming girl?" Sam asked, casting his gaze from Chris to Ray and back again.

"She'll turn up when she's ready," Ray said laconically, putting on his dark sunglasses and sticking a perforated ruler onto the end of a pencil.

Sam found Ray irritating at the best of times; now he found the detective sergeant jumping on his last nerve with a pair of football cleats. "Detective Sergeant Carling," he bit out, "Emily Fleming didn't just traipse off on a lark; she was forced into a car against her will. Now –"

Ray spun the ruler like a propeller. "Ha ha ha! Wheeeeeee!" he said, twirling himself around in the chair.

Sam grabbed the chair by the arms, stopping its motion, and shoved his face into Carling's. "You stupid git – take off those sunglasses and look at me!"

"Hey, hey, Sammie, don't get so uptight," Ray said, lazily removing the shades. His eyes were widely dilated. "You've got something_ huge_ up your jacksie. Calm down, have a brownie."

Something clicked in Sam's head. The odd taste of the brownie he'd sampled, the way the others were behaving – he took a brownie and sniffed at it, broke it apart.

"What the – that's hash!" he exclaimed. "These brownies are drugged!"

Gene came out of his office looking unusually soulful. "For you arrre beayoooootiful/And I have loved you dearly/More dearly than the spoken word can tell!"

"Leave the singing to Carling," Sam muttered. That was something he was actually good at.

"God, I love Roger Whittaker's voice," Gene said, throwing his arm around Sam's shoulders. "Gonna take the missus to see him sing next time he's up near these parts." He seemed to notice they weren't alone in the incident room. "Hell, let's all go!"

"How many of those brownies have you had, Guv?" Sam asked, getting out from under the Guv's arm.

"Three," Gene said, holding up two fingers. He noticed the number wasn't correct, and held up four fingers, then one, then two again. He turned the back of his hand toward Sam and jerked the two fingers up in his direction, then laughed like it was the best George Carlin joke ever.

Annie came up behind Sam and put her arms around his chest. "Y'know," she said, "I was such a bitch earlier."

"You had a right to be upset with me," Sam said, gently disengaging her arms.

"Don't you like me?" Annie asked.

"Of course I do," Sam said, turning to face her and seeing that her eyes too were dilated.

"Annie, do me a favour, luv. Take these brownies down to the lab and have them analysed."

Annie took a brownie and bit into it.

"NOT THAT WAY!" Sam exclaimed.

"Hey, Guv," Chris said, tugging on Gene's sleeve.

"Whut?"

Chris grinned. "Mushy mushy." Both men laughed uproariously.

"You make me feel all mushy mushy," Annie said, throwing her arms around Sam's neck with an expression that said "Take me now, here, on the floor, I don't care!" And Sam would have loved to, but he was on duty - and he was rapidly feeling as if he were the only sober person in A Division.

"Listen, listen, listen – everyone listen for a moment!" Sam shouted, standing on the nearest desk. "Anyone who had the brownies DC Skelton brought in – they appear to have been laced with hashish. We don't know how much, or how strong it is, but it's better for anyone who's had them, even if you think you're all right, to take a sickie and come back tomorrow. Nobody else eat these. If you have a partly eaten brownie, put the rest of it back in the box. I'm confiscating them and sending them for an analysis to make sure my suspicions are correct."

Gene actually _giggled_.

"Hey – you're not going to arrest her, are you?" Chris said, worried. "Cause that would be a real bummer and …"

"Why do we have to go home?" Ray asked. "We work half-drunk half the time. Some of us more than half drunk more than half the time. And some of us half drunk full time … what was I saying?"

"Go home?" Gene asked stupidly. He seemed even more out of it than the others.

"Did you wash these down with –" Sam began.

"Two fingers of whisky." Gene started to demonstrate but only succeeded in making an American-style obscene gesture with his middle finger.

"You're definitely going home," Sam said. "Get your coat. You can come back tomorrow when you're feeling better."

"Sammie, I'll go home, but I'm telling you, lad, I ain't ever gonna feel better!"

He came out after an unusually long time with the camel coat, but Sam had to help him put it on.

"Wait, Sammie. I gotta question."

"OK."

"Really important one and all."

"What, Gene?"

Gene frowned as if he'd forgotten what they were talking about, where he was, who he was – "Oh, I got it. Who's going to run the department?"

"Morning, gents," said a mellow, unwelcome voice. "Seen the press?"

Gene looked at Litton for a good long time, then turned around. "Sam, I'm staying here. I'm not _that_ stoned."


End file.
